


Knights of the Reach-Around

by Finksalion



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Also what is my life?, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blame the Book Club, Bukkake, Eleven Knights in Charibert, Hand Jobs, Heavens' Ward WAP, I now have a kink for church choir music..., M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgy, So... Hornck??, Suggested titles for this fic included:, This is also crack..., This is horny..., Writing Bukakke makes me giggle, Yes I decided to go with this title, enjoy???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finksalion/pseuds/Finksalion
Summary: Yep, you read the title right, this is certainly a ride... a horny, sacrilegious, mess of a ride where you may end up coated in... something. Mind the tags... and the splatter... and my sincerest apologies... honestly.Psst... hey you, yeah you... wanna join an amazing server full of inspiring and enabling peeps? Then come join us at Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club - https://discord.gg/jcgKuYs
Relationships: The Heavens' Ward - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Knights of the Reach-Around

The Vault, holiest of all sites within sweet mother Halone’s ice-rimed city, is all but silent on this cold Ishgardian evening. Dimmed candlelight from the sconces and chandeliers lining the thick stone walls and hanging from the vaulted ceilings reflect from the gold filigree railings and partitions and form deep flickering shadows in the corners and recesses within the ancient grandeur of the main hall. The soft intermittent glow lights up the intricate stained glass panels of Saints and Knights of eld, each image quivering as if the very subjects themselves can understand the sacred act that is occurring above them.

In the frigid silence that fills the tall hallways and wide landings of the Vault, as the climb up – ever closer to the heavens and to Halone’s grace – is made, a small noise echoes down the hall. It bounces off the walls and seems to stretch into the interminable silence, burning ears in its wake – if there were anyone to hear it. The nature of the sound would be considered positively _sinful_ if not for its location, within these blessed walls, on this blessed night. Tracing the sound back to its source along richly carpeted corridors, it seems to be emanating from a particularly unassuming chamber, from which several similar sounds of joyous union emerge.

Behind the rather plain door to this sacred chamber lies such a sight as to be burnt into ones retinas in divine retribution for daring to glimpse upon affairs of the church. Here, hard, naked muscular bodies are entwined, writhing and undulating in this dimly lit chamber where the shadows flickering on the plainly decorated walls would paint a picture of immorality and wanton lust, were it not for the participants of this gloriously sanctified occasion. For here, twelve elezen knights, disparate in every way but all sworn into service of the highest authority of this land, take their pleasure from each other over and over.

Those wrecked moans and grunts that sing out into the stone halls of the Vault, reverberating down empty corridors and echoing quietly into the grand ceilings of the main hall, overlay loud slaps of flesh meeting flesh, and the soft sucking sounds of moist entry into forbidden sanctuaries. It could almost be considered sinful were it not for the fact that this union and its participants have been absolved of all sin by the holiest of holies, Archbishop Thordan VII. Indeed, he has encouraged and blessed this communion of soul and body, serving as it does to bring these Knights of the Heavens’ Ward closer to each other and to their Goddess, cementing the ties that bind with a tangible, visceral connection constructed from reaping the pleasures of the flesh.

Somewhat in the centre of this divine formation, an elezen with glowing eyes – glowing with the fervour of his conviction, no doubt – is on hands and knees like a proper supplicant, and with his back arched in righteous ecstasy, a thin sheen of sweat covering his entire body. His blonde hair is tied back so as to better experience the bliss that his ecclesiastical brothers can provide, and this convenient hairstyle is currently being used as a handle by the larger Knight hilted within him from behind, who maintains this sinfully expressive arch of his back with one hand while his other grips a writhing hip. The contrasting splash of dark skin against light is beautiful, indicative of the beauty of creation in all of its variation, and the larger elezen pushes forwards once more with a grunt, hand tightening on hip as he keeps his precious supplicant from falling forwards at the force of his thrust.

"Yes, my brother! Once more I submit to your cleansing ministrations! Please, cleanse me harder! Sickness _must be purged_!" Ser Charibert cries out from his place of prostration as Ser Grinnaux the Bull, takes him like only a man of that moniker can.

A younger Knight, sitting to the side of the room on a small unadorned chaise lounge with his messy blonde hair spilling over his face, rolls his eyes at these exhortations. His delicate noble fingers, however, do not stop their motions on the slightly older white haired Ser Paulecrain sitting by his side. Ser Paulecrain moans in bliss as his younger brother-Knight continues stroking back and forth on his aching shaft with softly insistent fingers.

"By all that is holy, someone shut him up please." Ser Adelphel groans as he provides this much desired succour to Ser Paulecrain with his skilled hands.

"But sickness must be pu–" Ser Charibert starts, before his strident declamation is cut off as a hard phallus is thrust into his open mouth, stopping any further oration on purging sickness. The aforementioned phallus belongs to a pretty young Knight with short blonde hair, swept to one side of his delicately featured face, the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward himself.

"Thank you Ser Zephirin!" Adelphel exclaims with some relief, and continues on with his gentle worship of Ser Paulecrain’s member. 

"My pleasure." Ser Zephirin grunts, and indeed that pleasure is writ large on his face as he thrusts into the wet and eager mouth of Ser Charibert the Stern with as much force as Ser Grinnaux on the other end provides.

Ser Zephirin can hear his brother choke slightly as his tool hits the back of his throat, and he smiles in benediction as he can see the drool escaping from those pale lips. He cups Ser Charibert’s chin and the zealous Knight looks up at his Archimandrite with hungry devotion. He pulls out, Ser Charibert coughing and spluttering and taking deep breaths as a thin trail of spittle still links the sinner and the saint, but before he can say another word Ser Zephirin plunges his shaft back in and begins to take his tithe in the form of wanton flesh. He matches the Bull thrust for thrust as the former inquisitor is rocked back and forth between them, Ser Charibert’s eyes glowing with bliss as he is provided with the most perfect penance for his uncleanly wickedness.

There is a collective pause in the room as the rest of the Knights of the Heavens’ Ward watch Ser Zephirin and Ser Grinnaux start to systematically take the most ruthless member of their divine unit apart, piece by shivering, wrecked piece. They watch intently, some waiting for their chance to aid in cleansing their sadistic brother, some wishing fervently that they could take his place, but almost all enjoy the sight, the spectacle, and what is sure to follow on these benevolent nights of glorious, adulating harmonisation of their congregation.

However one of their number, Ser Haumeric the Valiant, stares at the scene before him with one lip curled, his black hair mussed and hiding eyes full of contempt for Ser Charibert, even as he is being brought low by his brothers. He has no time for Ser Charibert and his torturous, violent methodologies, and so instead looks elsewhere, for one of his brothers who he consider worthy of partaking in such a blessed sacrament.

“My brothers, have you seen our unbreakable Stone Spear?” Ser Haumeric asks from the small cot upon which he sits, one of many scattered around this otherwise fairly spartan room. His hands are currently busy even as he looks elsewhere, three of his fingers piercing the sacred font of his older brother-Knight Ser Hermenost, who is currently lying across his lap. Ser Hermenost, for his part, has one arm flung across his face, his short dark hair dishevelled as his other hand is wrapped around his own straining organ, pulling insistently in time with the pumping digits of Ser Haumeric; beautifully, pitifully, ardently wrecked.

“Oh please, let my surging aether become searing light!” Ser Hermenost whispers, only for Ser Haumeric to wipe his brow gently in saintly adoration.

“Hush, my brother, let me take care of you. Be frozen to your very soul under my cool comforting touch.” He breathes, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on warm umber skin, smiling as the Levinlight shudders under his dutiful ministrations. 

“Did you ask about Ser Vellguine, brother mine? He’s over in the corner there, being split in twain by the Cleaver.” Ser Noudenet answers, brushing his mousy light brown hair from his eyes as he removes his mouth from around Ser Ignasse’s aching shaft. The former dragoon gasps from the shocking absence of oral stimulation, and then gasps again as he feels Ser Janlenoux of the Steel Oath, a tall elezen with long blue hair and refined features, slowly pump his shaft in and out of his own most secret grotto with aching reverence and care.

Ser Haumeric looks to where his brother indicated, over the straining bodies of Ser Grinnaux and Ser Zephirin as they groan their completion within the thoroughly used Ser Charibert, who – despite his shaking limbs – still clamours for more, and spots his person of interest.

And indeed, in the indicated corner, legs spread wantonly and dripping with sweat, lies Ser Vellguine of the Stone Spear. Dark grey hair is plastered to his face and his mouth is wide open in silent prayer as tears stream down his face. His ruination comes at the hands of Ser Guerrique, the aforementioned Cleaver, who is currently pounding into the weeping Knight below him, shoulder-length white hair whipping back and forth with the force of his attentions as beads of sweat drip down his chest. He grunts a breathy exclamation with every thrust and reaches around to grab Ser Vellguine’s rock hard ‘Stone Spear’ in one hand, pumping it in time with his wicked thrusts and causing the unbreakable Knight to break and wail loudly around the Cleaver’s not inconsiderable weaponry, singing his prayers to the apex of the Vault in veneration.

Seeing that Ser Grinnaux and Ser Zephirin are finished with their sacred communion and that their supplicant lies panting on the floor, still mewling for more, Ser Adelphel rises from his seat next to the slowly recovering Ser Paulecrain and licks the spend of his brother-Knight from his fingers. He looks over to the other side of the room and clicks his fingers at Ser Janlenoux, who nods and lifts Ser Ignasse off his lap.

“With me, Ser Janlenoux!” Ser Adelphel barks, his gaze directed towards the ruined Ser Charibert at his feet. Kneeling on the floor and avoiding the puddles of seed that have emerged from the Stern at his prior devotions, he pulls up the shivering blonde’s hips and slides himself into his brother-Knight to the hilt, even as Ser Janlenoux steps forward with a grin.

“Ever and always, my brother.” He answers and pulls Ser Charibert up by his pony tail, admiring those plump silvery lips, now tinted red and slightly bruised due to his prior worship.

“Yes, please, burn me to ash with your passion… This shall be a mercy…” Ser Charibert whispers croakily, his throat wrecked from Ser Zephirin’s previous ministrations but still eager for more, ever more, tears streaking down his face in glorious, unthinking obedience.

As the two Knights start to systematically dismantle any composure that Ser Charibert may have regained after his wreckage at the hands of Ser Zephirin and Ser Grinnaux, Ser Paulecrain steps past them on shaky legs, taking a second to reach down and tug on Ser Charibert’s achingly hard shaft, watching with pleasure as his brother shudders under the extra stimulation afforded to him. However, after a few more jerks he moves past, ignoring Ser Charibert’s soundless begging for more as his mouth continues to be used as a receptacle for Ser Janlenoux’s hard member.

Instead, Ser Paulecrain moves to find Ser Hermenost, already open and ruined at the hands of the Valiant, and proceeds to bend him over the edge of the cot, plunging within that hot, tight sacrosanct cavern with a single thrust, eliciting a broken cry from his already demolished brother.

“Hark, my brother, my lance pierces all of you.” He breathes into the Levinlight’s ear, pulling the grey haired man up to press against his chest and hissing at the still-tight feeling of his brother surrounding him completely. He looks up from his ministrations briefly to see Ser Guerrique pulling out of the absolutely wrecked Ser Vellguine, still hard and growling for more as Ser Vellguine sinks down onto the cot, breathing fast and shallow but with a beatific smile of satisfaction spreading across his usually solemn face.

That expression catches the eye of Ser Grinnaux, who steps over to the cot upon which the eminently satisfied Stone Spear lies, and sits next to his stupefied brother. He gently lifts up Ser Vellguine’s head and places it in his lap, encouragingly directing him to his steadily rising shaft with a gentle hand to the back of his neck.

“Down with you.” He says softly, and Ser Vellguine opens his eyes for a second, locking eyes with Ser Grinnaux and giving his brother a gentle smile before reaching up and sinking his mouth down upon the gloriously aching member that lies semi-prostrate in front of his face. Willingly, eagerly, wanting to provide succour to his brother at arms even after his own ruination, he begins to worship the shaft of the Bull, drawing groans from his brother at his eager devotionals.

Ser Guerrique however, still yearning to split apart more of his brothers in his unthinking dedication, casts desperate eyes around and finally alights on Ser Noudenet. Pulling his brother off Ser Ignasse’s cock, which he was still worshipping reverently, he empties almost an entire bottle of lube onto his hands and thrusts two fingers into his brother’s opening. He’s rough and impatient, as the Cleaver is known to be, and after a minute or two of spreading apart his brother with strong fingers, Ser Noudenet the Wise is panting and praying for the _full_ devotion of his brother. Ser Guerrique is happy – eager even – to oblige and plunges deep with his mighty weapon as he cries out another loud grunt, one which matches the wail of the Wise at feeling the Cleaver thrust into him, rough but not unwelcome.

“Ahh, brother dear, _harder_!” He cries as he feels Ser Guerrique comply, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh in a room filled with cries and groans of supplication and divine, euphoric bliss as they pull themselves, ilm by sweaty ilm, closer to the heavens.

Ser Ignasse, somewhat perturbed at the Cleaver for removing his route to pleasurable heights, instead stumbles over to Ser Haumeric, who is currently submitting his mouth to Ser Zephirin’s enraptured pleasure. Pulling up the hips of the black-haired knight, he begins to slowly stretch his brother open with one finger, then two, scissoring them inside that tight hole and using some of the liberally available lube to spread his companion wide open for his use. Once determining that Ser Haumeric is ready, and nodding at Ser Zephirin, who holds him steady, Ser Ignasse slowly fills a squirming Ser Haumeric with his stiff member, hissing at his brother’s tight hold on him.

“Feel the power of the dragoon…” Ser Ignasse hums as he hilts into his brother, who is unable to groan with his mouth full of Ser Zephirin’s shaft. However, Ser Haumeric’s eyes roll back into his head at the feeling of fullness, remembering well his previous wish to be filled by the Dragons Tail and silently thanking Halone for this precious gift as a single tear rolls down his face.

Ser Zephirin looks at his brother with adoration, and then looks around the room as Ser Haumeric continues his ministrations. His comrades at arms, his brothers, his family; they all try so hard, work _so hard_ to perform the will of their leader, that moments such as these are a treat as well as a tribute to their Goddess, the holiest of all sacraments that they can provide outside of giving their own lives for the cause.

“History will vindicate us.” He whispers softly, so low as to be unheard by even his closest brothers as they pant and groan next to him. He has to believe that it’s true, that they are on the side of right otherwise what was it all for? Pushing the unwanted and sacrilegious thoughts from his mind, he instead narrows his eyes as he views the wrecked and yet still wanton and debauched Ser Charibert in the centre of the room, eyes rolling back in his head, tears streaming from his glowing eyes, one hand on Ser Janlenoux’s hip to steady his shaking muscles as the other hand reaches desperately for his own aching member, spilling out over and over again onto the cold stone floor of this simple chamber. Decided, Ser Zephirin gently pushes Ser Haumeric off his hard member and stands, viewing his most treasured comrades.

“Brothers! The time is come to call upon the true power of the Heavens' Ward!” He declaims, and the others all raise their heads, stopping their activities even as Ser Charibert looks over with eyes positively gleaming with excitement. As if in perfect formation, the Knights of the Heavens’ Ward all disentangle themselves from errant limbs and used orifices, all gathering around an ecstatic and adoring Ser Charibert, tears streaming down his face as he pumps his own shaft in expectant bliss as the Heavens’ Ward all grasp themselves and ready for their final release.

“Heavens rain _life_ upon you.” Ser Noudenet groans as he releases, his seed arching across the gap to drip down Ser Charibert’s face, who gasps and moans in writhing adulation as he feels the first splatter of his brothers gift running down his cheek. In quick succession, the other Knights follow, their groans of desperately releasing pleasure reaching for the very heavens themselves as Charibert kneels at their feet, accepting their consecrated offerings with a beatific smile of saintly ecstasy on his face as they cover him in their glory.

And thus, the Knights of the Heavens’ Ward reach the very apex of their righteous service, liturgical liberation of their body and souls in the name of Halone, offerings given of the flesh, from the flesh, for the flesh, forevermore enshrined in their memory and serving to strengthen them in their forthcoming times of need. They may not be the Knights that the people of Ishgard _want_ , but they may well be the Knights that the people of Ishgard _deserve_.


End file.
